


the windmills of your mind

by mareza



Series: in quiet rooms [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, past Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Duchess Fraldarius, referenced Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd (one-sided), things are sad and bad out here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareza/pseuds/mareza
Summary: He recognizes, in the lavishness of the meal set before him, Ambrose’s desire to share in his celebration. Yet the drink is tasteless on his tongue. The berries that burst between his teeth, half-bitter, are too much sensation to bear. He eats; he drinks; he offers fragments of response to Ambrose’s conversation. Glancing through mirrors at the open windows behind him, he longs for the chill of frigid northern winds.But he is a guest. So he stays.Rodrigue, grieving the loss of his wife, accepts Margrave Gautier's offers of comfort. It's still very difficult to keep his mind where it's supposed to stay.Margrave Gautier tries to help.
Relationships: Ambrose Rene Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Series: in quiet rooms [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664935
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	the windmills of your mind

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Ambrigue so: an unhealthy relationship, continuing from shameful company. A depressed, mostly sober man decides to accept what comfort his university-fling ex has to offer (it’s sex). It’s explicitly consenting: Rodrigue made a conscious choice that he was going to accept this several days ago, and he is very aware that he could just leave without any consequences, because he knows he has veto power in this relationship. But it’s also an unhealthy, bad decision he shouldn't be making, and Ambrose is totally overlooking that maybe you shouldn't sleep with someone if they're depressed and grieving. The sex, which happens more than once, is alluded to but not described in any detail.
> 
> Also: adultery (again, Margravine Gautier [Roxanne] doesn't care) and Faerghus just being a bad place to live. This one is ALSO heavily about grief-related depression and dissociation. Rodrigue is in a bad place, and the prose reflects that bad mental space. and Ambrose does what he thinks should help, but Ambrose’s ideas of helpful are questionable and also kinda selfish. Rodrigue probably should have gone to a grief counselor instead.
> 
> lmao jk as if Faerghus has grief counselors. Imagine! Anyway it’s a bad day for Rodrigue, and Ambrose doing his best to be good to Rodrigue doesn’t mean the relationship is healthy. It just means Ambrose doesn't intend or understand that it's unhealthy.

For nine days now, he has followed Ambrose’s lead. When he is called to breakfast, he dresses and he eats. When he is invited to the border, he gathers his lance and guides his horse onto Gautier’s bloody fields. He lets Ambrose choose where he sits at meals and where he stands in battle. Whatever task Ambrose hands him he completes with all the competence expected of his station, whether it is the automatic etiquette of a dinner table or the simple and soothing rhythms of warfare. Then Ambrose tells him it is done, and Rodrigue leaves.

As a Duke, Rodrigue takes precedence. That is true anywhere else in Faerghus. But in Gautier, the command is the ruling Margrave’s for as long as there is conflict to be had. And there is always conflict in Gautier.

Every night ends in Ambrose’s study. Ambrose always settles him in the same armchair. He always offers him a glass of the same drink. When the fire burns a little too warmly, Ambrose helps him shed layers, and when he is at his limit, Ambrose calls a servant to send him to bed. Rodrigue always knows what he is offering, and Ambrose always knows he knows. But Ambrose never lets it slip so far that it would be a demand.

It feels, at times, that he is accruing debts. But keeping tally seems like too much work just now, and when it occurs to him to worry, Rodrigue merely catalogues in his thoughts all the places where Ambrose’s armor is most weak.

Rodrigue has seen very little of Roxanne or the children. He can’t imagine it is an accident. Even if he is more patient than when they were younger, Ambrose surely can’t help but try to fix the game, just as he does with his fireplace that is always too warm, and his drinks that are too easy to swallow, and his careful conversation that always seems to dance with its offer without making any demand.

There is something painful in the care of it. A strange and heartbreaking solace in knowing that Ambrose will offer him a consideration that he gives to no one else, in how well Ambrose knows his limits and cares for them, even with all his blindness to the rest. When they sit at night, they talk, and when they talk, Ambrose tries to reach him, and when Ambrose reaches for him Rodrigue aches for what has stayed and what he could not keep.

It would be easier, to take what Ambrose will give him. To just—not think. It was always how they connected best.

Rodrigue opens his eyes in that too-hot room, tucked away from the rest of the world, and he studies Ambrose’s smile. It is precise on his face: open enough to reveal a flash of teeth but never more, curved to pleasing angles, persuasive in how it affects the shape of his eyes. Rodrigue is certain Ambrose practiced it in a mirror as a child. Ambrose never said as much, but Rodrigue knows him. He knows even the parts of him that Ambrose has let himself forget.

The most terrible thing about it, Rodrigue thinks, is that that smile really does make everything feel just that little bit easier to bear.

Rodrigue is not surprised that he is sitting and Ambrose is stood now, at the end of the hunt, not when Ambrose has spent the whole week staging himself at a height. Still, Rodrigue does not strain his neck in looking up at Ambrose any longer. He instead looks at the glass settled on his lap, and he remembers hours of simple, soothing compliance. He can’t remember now if it was blissful, or if time has distorted the experience. But he is certain that it was quiet.

He very badly wants quiet.

Rodrigue cuts Ambrose off mid-sentence. It doesn’t really matter what he was saying. Rodrigue hadn’t been able to hear any of it. “Enough, Ambrose,” Rodrigue tells him, not looking up. “This is enough.”

Rodrigue does not see the shift in Ambrose’s attention, but he feels it. There is a line of bright anticipation undercutting the usual airiness of his voice. “So sorry, I don’t entirely follow. What do you mean by that?”

“You know what.”

Ambrose draws his fingers through Rodrigue’s hair. He curls them against the nape of his neck, lightly. With the leverage of that slight pressure, he tips back Rodrigue’s head, until their eyes meet.

“My old friend.” The irony is so heavy in Ambrose’s throat, Rodrigue wonders how he doesn’t choke on it. “You have to ask for what you want.”

Perhaps it’s fair. Rodrigue has stayed here. Rodrigue has made his choice, to permit Ambrose’s offers and accept what they can give. So perhaps it’s only fair that Rodrigue be barred from any opportunity for disavowal.

“Ambrose,” Rodrigue says. “Just fuck me.”

Ambrose’s smile widens imperfectly. Rodrigue knows it so well.

The bruise burns under his collar the next day.

There are mirrors everywhere now in Castle Gautier, but the one in Rodrigue’s new guest rooms suffices. Studying himself in it, he assesses the tells of his failures—the obvious exhaustion of his eyes, the curve of his shoulders, the slowness of his responses. This check he has long since become accustomed to, even before the recent pull of his grief. There have always been demands that outweigh his strength to bear them, and the need to mask the strain when the next day arrives.

But it has been a long time since he has had to study himself to check the height of an outfit’s collar.

“Rodrigue,” Ambrose greets the moment he steps out of his rooms. “Would you care to breakfast with me? We’ve had some early blackberries I had brought in for you. Of course, the taste is a touch altered for being out of season, but even so, they’re a delight to be savored. Something special for our favorite guest.”

“I’m honored,” Rodrigue murmurs. “Thank you, Ambrose.” Ambrose settles a hand on Rodrigue’s back, that favored place just between his shoulder blades. Falling into step beside his host, Rodrigue obliges the pressure that guides him down Gautier’s cold corridors to the private dining hall just off of Ambrose’s quarters.

It is a beautiful thing—redone to Ambrose’s tastes, Rodrigue is sure, for the late Margrave did not care for gold or reflective surfaces. Rodrigue has never eaten here while in Lambert or Eris’s company. This visit, he has not eaten anywhere else.

He recognizes, in the lavishness of the meal set before him, Ambrose’s desire to share in his celebration. Yet the drink is tasteless on his tongue. The berries that burst between his teeth, half-bitter, are too much sensation to bear. He eats; he drinks; he offers fragments of response to Ambrose’s conversation. Glancing through mirrors at the open windows behind him, he longs for the chill of frigid northern winds.

But he is a guest. So he stays.

“Is something the matter?” Ambrose’s eyes, when Rodrigue looks up to meet them, seem almost as if they have not left him all morning. Ambrose smiles. “You seem a little subdued.”

“I’m only tired,” Rodrigue says. He closes his mouth and swallows down the unsteadiness, glancing down at his plate again. “Something from last night seems to have had an effect.”

Ambrose laughs pleasantly, but it cuts off. Rodrigue glances over to him again quickly enough to catch the flickers of surprise, then anger, before Ambrose’s expression smooths into his easy control. “So this breakfast doesn’t suit you. You should have said something, my friend. I would have had something else brought for you immediately.”

“I would not ask such a thing of you. This is a meal any would be honored to be served.” _This_ is easy, at least. The automatic response settles some of his discomfort. “Your chefs do House Gautier credit.”

“How flattering you always are. But I seem to remember asking you not about the skill of my chefs but the state of my guest.”

There’s an edge to Ambrose’s tone. It is a warning bell that Rodrigue is ill-equipped to answer in this moment, but he steels himself anyway.

“There is nothing the matter with the food,” Rodrigue says. “I am grateful, as ever, to your hospitality.” 

Ambrose continues to watch him. Rodrigue’s fingers twitch against the silverware.

Then at once, Ambrose pops one last berry into his mouth before wiping clean his spotless hands and pushing casually to his feet. He moves behind Rodrigue, to the grand windows at his back. There is the rustle of metal and cloth, and daylight is swept out.

That distinct, acrid scent of Ambrose’s fire magic strikes Rodrigue a moment before the candelabras flare around them.

“Now,” Ambrose says from behind him, brushing fingers against his neck. Rodrigue’s awareness draws in towards the point. “If breakfast is so very unsuitable to your current tastes, perhaps you would care to put your mouth to better use?”

What comes next is automatic, too, but clearer to him in its purpose. And in the haziness that follows, when Ambrose has brought him back up into the chair and is indulging himself with running fingers through his hair, it occurs to Rodrigue that he no longer feels such a desperate need for the cold. Sensation does not bear so much weight.

“Oh, Rodrigue,” Ambrose sighs, idle in his affections. “Whatever will we do with you?”

Rodrigue settles a drowsy hand over Ambrose’s and guides it down to his neck. Ambrose smiles and, understanding, merely turns his head towards him, so they are face to face.

“Of course,” he promises. “You are our favorite guest.”

Ambrose kisses him. It is, Rodrigue thinks, not unlike a kindness.

The second time—when it is over, Rodrigue does not remember much of it. He remembers warmth, heavy and hazy. He remembers fingers and the press of lips. Was it after they returned from battle? Everything was clear to him there. To a warrior of Faerghus, blades and blood always sing true. But later—later, returning to himself—

Returning to the castle. To—waking up.

No—he doesn’t remember much of that. He remembers instead, after Ambrose had coaxed him through that sickening dread of the next steps he had to take—after he had helped him dress and disguise the evidence of what they had done—

There is always in Ambrose a distant pleasure when he watches Rodrigue after sex. A smile of satisfaction, masking any deeper emotion that might be brought out by the act. But Rodrigue remembers: this time, there was something else in Ambrose’s expression. A shifting of his eyes that looked a little bit like concern.

Perhaps he imagined it. Still, it’s a comforting thought.

A map is a strange thing. More than abstraction, it is a revelation of a way of approaching the world. In his ducal office, Rodrigue has dozens of maps, collected over many generations—maps of Fraldarius, in censuses going back to the House’s founding, records of populations and settlements growing and declining and changing to new names; maps of the greater part of Fódlan, the names of its cities now and in the past, the roads between them; maps of supply lines and fortifications, of waterways and farmlands, of stone and metal and precious gems. Different papers, inks, pens, hands. Each one an attempt to measure, to scale, to depict.

In his study, he keeps other maps. No measurements were taken for these, no calculations made to fit vast landmasses on sheets of parchment. Instead, in the frame of a perfect circle, history spreads across Fódlan from Adrestia to Leicester: the Goddess’s Revelation, the War of Heroes, the War of the Eagle and the Lion, the Crescent Moon War. Time itself moves in lockstep with geography, each nation circumscribed within a history that trends towards its perfection. In one map, a rectangle charts the narrative of Seiros’s journey, ordering Fódlan by the places that composed her life, key locations appearing as iterations through history. In another, overlapping circles reveal the layers of reality: the Goddess’s Heaven on her starry throne, the earthly experience of their brief lives, the cold underworld from which regretful souls seek to crawl free of the Eternal Flames. 

These are not maps for war, though wars have been waged for what is upon them. Gathered up by his ancestors, added to by his own hand, these are maps over which to meditate. A census map only reflects a moment in time, and at that only its best efforts. These maps reflect a way of thinking.

Eris used to laugh at them. When he showed her Fódlan as three petals folding out from the Church, she asked how this mapmaker thought anyone got from Leicester to Faerghus. He had reminded her that it was not literal; she had told him, _I’m not being literal either. Does this mapmaker think the only thing we have in common with the Alliance is the Church?_

“—Lord Rodrigue.”

Rodrigue lifts his head. He stares at Ambrose and sees in his expression the terrifying tell of an open frown. The other commanders are watching him. Before him is a map of the frontlines, carefully annotated with troop movements and projected points of Sreng’s advance.

Ah.

“Excuse us a moment,” Ambrose says. “I must confer with the Duke in private.” When he rises, the commanders follow suit. Rodrigue does not protest but lets Ambrose lead him away from the office and onwards towards Ambrose’s quarters. When Ambrose opens the door to his dining hall, Rodrigue stops.

“Ambrose,” he warns, “This is not the time—” 

Ambrose cants his head, saying, “Come now, I just want a little chat where we won’t be overheard.” 

Deflection, Rodrigue knows, is the only way Ambrose can accept a warning. But he suspects there were other intentions from the start. The pleasant smile is back.

Still, Rodrigue steps inside, and lets Ambrose shut the door behind them.

“My apologies,” Rodrigue begins, tracking Ambrose’s movement to the table. “I’m aware that that was an unacceptable lapse. It won’t happen again.”

“Did you ever pick cherries as a child?” Ambrose asks.

Rodrigue frowns. “Forgive me, I don’t follow.”

“How terribly uncharacteristic of you.” Ambrose’s charming smile is full of teeth. “Isn’t that what you’re for?”

Rodrigue keeps his tone polite. “Please, Ambrose. I would appreciate clarification.”

Ambrose steps aside, picking up Rodrigue’s abandoned bowl of blackberries from the morning. He holds it out to him. “Yourself—Lambert, always so bold and admirably disinterested in the rules—your happy childhood together. We discussed the two of you climbing trees for cherries once, didn’t we?”

Rodrigue says, firmly, “ _His Majesty_ and I did at times get into adventures of the kind. The relevance of this discussion is escaping me.”

“Just reminiscing with an old friend, Rodrigue,” Ambrose says. “You fed me so many stories about him in your letters, do you remember? I ended up with quite the poor impression of our dear prince.”

“Our _king_.”

Lightly: “He was our prince then.”

“He is our king now,” Rodrigue says, “and I would not have had cause to say an ill word against him. You must be remembering incorrectly.”

“I might be,” Ambrose allows. “Would you care to check?”

Rodrigue’s instincts flare with warning. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you don’t think I threw your letters away. You put so much of your heart into them, getting rid of them would feel like burning up a very dear friend.” Ambrose holds the bowl up in front of Rodrigue again. “Have a blackberry, Rodrigue.”

Rodrigue pushes it away. “I’m not hungry,” he says. “The letters—”

“But you should eat,” Ambrose tells him. “You’re looking rather weak.”

Rodrigue sets his teeth. “As I said. That lapse will not happen again. You said, about my letters—”

“No,” Ambrose says. “You would _never_ lapse in your duties, would you? Then again,” he adds, setting the bowl aside, “you _are_ here in Gautier now. But I suppose Lambert wouldn’t have been able to offer you the same hospitality I have, would he.”

Rodrigue feels ice wash down his back. And he knows, all at once, that Ambrose is watching his expression as it changes. 

“Of course,” Ambrose continues, “we both know Lambert would never deny a friend in need. Still, what a shame! Even now, with Victorine out of the way—”

“Ambrose.”

“—you will never take the place in his esteem that he has in yours. How long do you imagine it will be before he finds his next queen, I wonder? We must allow some time for grief, of course—a month, perhaps two—”

“ _Ambrose_.” 

“—but Lambert’s heart is quick to know what it wants, and _never_ mistakes what it doesn’t. _Such_ a loyal right hand you always are—will you plan his second wedding for him too?”

Rodrigue grabs Ambrose by his collar and snarls, “ _That’s enough_.” 

Ambrose smiles.

“There you are,” he says. “A _much_ better face to bring to our war room.”

Rodrigue lets go.

Ambrose is still watching him with that distant and attentive pleasure. It makes Rodrigue painfully conscious of the way his breathing has shifted, the harshness of the air around him. Of the fog that has been pierced through all at once, leaving him with the cold clarity of thought.

Rodrigue presses his palm against his forehead. He exhales. “Yes. That... certainly did the trick. I suppose I owe you thanks for it, but for some reason, I’m not feeling very grateful.” At that, Ambrose laughs; despite himself, Rodrigue finds his lips threatening an answering smile. He pushes it down. “Now,” Rodrigue says, “We should return to the meeting.” 

Ambrose opens again the door from the dining hall, and Rodrigue steps through it. His steps feel more certain than they have this week anywhere except the battlefield. 

“Merely inform me next time you need assistance,” Ambrose tells him. “Much better to intercede before it goes too far than to be caught at less than your best before others, wouldn’t you say?”

That compels Rodrigue to his own quiet laugh. “I’m not sure how they would take Margrave Gautier drawing the Duke of Fraldarius aside for a private scolding twice in one meeting. Public distraction may do less damage to my reputation as a commander.”

“Rodrigue,” Ambroe chides, so very fondly. “You must have more faith. I know you too well to wear out the usefulness of a trick.” 

The rest of the meeting _does_ go better. Rodrigue finds his attention on the map before him and the battlefields it represents; he knows his suggestions for strategy are effective, and if their knights have cause to question his fitness for command, they keep these concerns to themselves. 

Still, at times, the haze threatens to return. But Ambrose is attentive, and Ambrose knows him. And, true to promise, he avoids repetition. When Rodrigue is about to slip away, Ambrose summons him back with the call of his name. When Rodrigue falters past hearing, distant to all but his own thoughts, Ambrose wakes him with a simple touch. And now and then, when nothing else will keep him present—

Then, like a third son told to catch a firebird after his brothers have fallen to its lullabies, Rodrigue is kept wakeful by the salt that Ambrose rubs in his wounds. Carefully, subtly, in those places Ambrose knows are most tender—Ambrose is never cruel about it. It is always only just enough.

Afterwards, the room empties out, and once again they are alone. With a greater sigh than he could allow himself in other company, Rodrigue turns to Ambrose and offers a tired smile. “Thank you, Ambrose. Unusual as your methods may be, they were effective.” He adds, quietly, “And my apologies, that you had to do that. I’m aware that I have not been… the best of guests. I appreciate what you’ve done.”

Ambrose sets a companionable hand on Rodrigue’s back. He says, “Think nothing of it. You are, after all, our favorite guest.” His hand draws up. As if in idleness, his thumb slips under the edge of Rodrigue’s collar to tap against his bruise.

Ambrose tells him, “How tragic it would be not to have you all here.”

What Rodrigue asked Ambrose to do for him, that night when he accepted his offer—it left no mark. But, later, after the haze had slipped away, just before Ambrose finished dressing him again so that they could vanish to their separate rooms and invite no wagging tongues—

“One last thing,” Ambrose had said, pulling Rodrigue’s coat from his hands. 

Rodrigue let it go. He had followed Ambrose’s pull back into his arms. He had closed his eyes as Ambrose settled his lips against that pulse point, so close to his jaw, and allowed Ambrose to bruise him at his leisure.

And, when it was done—that familiar smile. And the words, lingered over with such pleasure: “We wouldn’t want you to forget.”

He doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter at [@marezafic](https://twitter.com/marezafic)! More information on this universe, fondly nicknamed the JCU (Jock Cinematic Universe), can be found in [this twitter moment](https://twitter.com/i/events/1195471121732243456?s=13).


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